Cameron and the Girls

by Edward Averett

  The good feelings start to go away. And once again, on the inside of my head, something is flexing its muscles. I’m wondering if the rest of my life will always be a fight with myself. Or will The Girl always come and make it all better?

  As I think of her, I should be calming down, but my nerves are on fire. All up and down my arms and legs, the synapses spark to life. My brain rolls around like a ball bouncing against my skull. I feel pressure and reach up to touch my head when:

  How would you like to have the life of a lifetime, Mr. Renaissance man?

  I sit up higher and look around. Another voice I don’t know. My tongue suddenly feels thick and tarry. “What?”

  Be bold? Be tough? Live the life you should be living?

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say.

  Change it up, then. Make it great. Make them respect you. Before it’s too late, Mr. Cammy.

  “Who are you?” I cry.

  Are you down for a change?

  Eight

  At dinner, my hands are shaking. Dad notices.

  “Something up, bud?”

  “Not really,” I say. From across the table, Mom smiles nervously at me. “Too much homework maybe.” She winks, as if now we’re buddies because I told her about my girlfriend.

  “I know what that’s about,” Dad says, laughing. For a moment, he and Mom commiserate about their school days, and Beth sighs big while she stirs her spaghetti with a fork.

  “When do I get my phone back?” she asks.

  Before the argument gets going, I excuse myself, and I’m back up in my room within minutes. I realize I’m scared of this new voice. I call him The Other Guy. He has a power that fills all the dark places in my head. The places I usually hide. It’s as if there is no hiding from him, and that makes me nervous. I squirm and pace for a few minutes, but my anxiety gets the best of me, and I dive under my blankets. My body is still vibrating when Mom comes up at the usual ten to nine.

  “I ended up telling your father about the other morning in the yard,” she says as she rests on the side of my bed. “You understand why I had to?”

  I shrug. “What did he say?”

  “It worries him. He’ll probably want to talk to you about it later in private.”

  Just say your dad should be careful about what he says to you.

  “All right,” I say instead. Part of me wants to mention the new scary voice to my mom, but I don’t trust that she won’t go berserk on me. Which is too bad, since sometimes just telling about strange things makes them seem less strange.

  “How are you and your girlfriend doing?” she asks.

  “Well. You know, okay.”

  Mom grins and pats my leg through the covers. I can tell she feels good about this. I think now she has a different kind of worry with my girlfriend, but it’s one she’s been through herself with Dad, and knowing about it must feel comforting to her. She stands up. “I didn’t tell your father about the girlfriend part,” she says. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  When she’s gone, the night stretches out long and dense. My thoughts are like a dog without a leash. Dr. Simons once told me the mind is a big house with many corridors and rooms we can explore. But sometimes people get trapped in them, like rats in a maze, and it causes panic. It helps if you have a plan of escape.

  The trouble with you is that you’re too afraid to speak up. But nothing bad will happen if you do. Try it. You’ll see.

  I close my eyes tightly, which sometimes makes voices go away. Not tonight.

  Seriously. Just show them how tough you really are. Then the tables will turn. They’ll be afraid of you.

  “Not now,” I say. “I want The Girl.”

  My room is quiet for a moment and then:

  Hello, Cam.

  I am warmed by her voice, but shiver anyway.

  You seem upset.

  “I am,” I say. “Did you hear what that other guy said?”

  Yes. But don’t be afraid. We have each other.

  I start to relax and feel tingly and begin to understand why Beth is always smiling now that she has a boyfriend.

  “You’re the only girl who understands me.” I flush at how corny I sound.

  It’s silent again for a while. I think I can actually hear the turning of the earth on its squeaky axis. But it’s quiet too long and my gut does a strange flip. “Are you still there?” I try out loud.

  Nothing back.

  “Please, don’t leave,” I say more softly.

  I do understand you.

  I feel a great relief in my lungs. “You’re back.”

  I lie alone, waiting. It is a hopeful feeling I have now. I like having The Girl. The others can go, especially this latest one, but I want her to stay.

  I hear a quiet humming in my brain. At first I think it is a crazy buzz, but then I realize it is her. She’s humming a lullaby. I think about how she looks, the cut of her hair. I can almost see her fingers clasped around each other. I slowly unwind. Somewhere in the middle of the song, I fall asleep. Having a girlfriend is great.

  At school, there is a paper heart on my desk, left over from Valentine’s Day. I open it and recognize Nina’s handwriting, all curlicues and exclamations. “To my partner in crime,” it says. I look up and see her teeth on parade.

  Mrs. Owens is still sick, but she stands at the front of the class anyway. Her nose is even redder, and now it’s peeling. “I think you should practice your reading,” she says tiredly. She puts her hands on her desk and slumps into her chair.

  Griffin opens his book and stands it on his desk. He hides paper and pen behind it, begins doodling. He starts out with a human head and then adds a cow’s hoof sprouting from a lolling tongue. He snorts.

  I take my own pen and paper and start to draw. I begin with squares and rectangles, boxy images that don’t look right. I cross out the boxes and start drawing more oval shapes. I carefully pen a kind of wave that flows down one side and stops at the bottom of the oval, and then a different one that flows down the other side.

  “What is it?” whispers Griffin, who peeks over my shoulder.

  I shrug. I am busy creating lips, the top thinner than the bottom.

  “Oh, I get it,” says Griffin. “It looks like—”

  “My girlfriend,” I finish for him.

  Griffin peeks over at Nina and then back to the drawing.

  “Not her,” I say. “My girlfriend’s hair is short.”

  “Decent face,” Griffin says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Pretty, like Nina,” he says. “Same nose and lips.”

  “But different,” I say. I paint in her eyes, big and round and dark. They look up from the page and see only me. I feel a twinge in my heart.

  “Nice,” says Griffin. But he is not satisfied. “So if she’s not Nina, then who is she?”

  Mrs. Owens looks up and glares at him, barely shaking her head.

  When her eyes close again, I struggle for an answer. But I don’t need to because:

  I’m just me. People don’t always need a name.

  “People don’t always need a name,” I say. Griffin pulls back and eyes me suspiciously. “And she doesn’t go to school here,” I add.

  Mrs. Owens stands up and starts walking slowly around the room. She pauses here and there to look over a student’s shoulder. I add to the drawing until she is too close, and then I fold the paper and put it in my backpack. But not before I carefully write “The Girl” in the corner.

  On the way home, I fall asleep on the bus, and Roy, the driver, has to shout to wake me up at my stop. I expect to see Beth come out of the blackberries again, but she’s not there, and I drag myself all the way up to the house. Not taking meds makes me more tired.

  Today was not a bad day except for one thing. I waited and waited to hear more from The Girl, but she’s been quiet since class. Now I’m tired and it’s not good for me because, as Dr. Simons says, “Do not let yourself get too h
ungry, angry, lonely, or tired. It only makes things worse.”

  Mom greets me at the back door, eyes wide, her hands washing in and out of each other. “Where’s your sister?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wasn’t she on the bus?”

  “No. I didn’t see her.”

  She grabs me by the shoulders and makes me look at her. “Cameron, do you know something?”

  I look into her eyes and see myself reflected back, but all distorted like through a fisheye camera lens. I feel panicky when I can’t stop looking at it. “I don’t know where she is,” I finally say, and manage to break away.

  “When I find out where she is . . .” Mom says as I sneak past her and into the house.

  I go up to my room and take the drawing out of my backpack. I lie on my bed against the wall and stare at it. Soon, her lips start to move like a woman’s do when she rubs her lipstick around.

  Hello, Cam.

  “Hey.”

  I’m glad you told Griffin that I’m your girlfriend. It makes me proud. And you know what makes me prouder? You don’t need that medicine. That’s what I think is the coolest thing.

  I can’t help but puff up my chest a little. I reach down and trace my finger around her image. “It’s because I’m a Renaissance man.”

  You sure are. Do you want to do something?

  “Okay,” I say. “Like what?”

  Let’s go somewhere where we can be alone.

  “We can be alone here.” I kiss the tip of my finger and place it on the lips I drew.

  You know what I mean, Cam, don’t you?

  “I get it,” I say. “I’m ready.” And my body agrees.

  I fold the paper even tighter this time and lay it on the floor. I feel buoyant as I slide into the covers. I have a secret that everybody only thinks they know about. And having it makes the world open up a little wider to make room for me.

  Nine

  I am both happy and scared on the bus the next morning. I’m happy because of my time with The Girl. It looks like she is here to stay. But I’m also scared because The Other Guy is still unfolding and pushing my guts around.

  Beth’s friends are not on the bus today, so she sits across the aisle, her arms tight against her chest. She stares out the window, but once in a while she glares over at me. She thinks I ratted her out to Mom and that’s why she had to endure the humiliation of having Mom come pick her up at the café by the high school where she was sharing an energy drink with Dylan. And then this morning we both had to sit down at the end of the driveway in Mom’s car and wait for the bus to come. It looks like Mom is on a divide-and-conquer mission. I worry that Beth might spill the beans about my medicine.

  “It’s not my fault,” I whisper hoarsely.

  But Beth only turns her head slowly and frowns at me again.

  “I didn’t say anything. Honest.”

  She turns back to the window. Her fingers clench into a fist and then relax.

  When I get off the bus, Nina is there, waiting. She takes me by the arm and drags me over by the side of the school. “What’s this I hear about a girlfriend?” she asks. Her face is fiery red.

  I can only grunt as I fight to get loose from her.

  “And another thing. I’m not invisible. I exist. And my name is Nina. You spell it N-i-n-a.” She pushes me away, but then grabs on to my shirt again and pulls me closer.

  “I don’t know what . . .”

  “And you’re welcome for the Valentine card,” she adds. “Not that it makes any difference to you.” This time she lets me go for good and walks away, smoothing down the sleeves of her shirt. I decide I don’t understand any girls except for The Girl.

  I start heading for the classroom door, but walk more slowly the closer I get. I feel jumbled and nervous. I want to crawl inside myself and hide. The weird unfolding in my guts is now tapping on my skull. I look around for a place to hide, but:

  She can’t talk to you that way.

  I freeze in place. “What way?” I ask.

  You know. Like she owns you.

  “Oh.”

  Are you in?

  I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there.

  It’ll be fun. We’ll cause a little trouble.

  Confused and scared, I take off running. I head toward the shop class, make a quick sidestep, and disappear behind the building.

  Wait up, Mr. Renaissance man.

  I speed up. Sometimes I think if I set my mind to it, I can get enough speed to outrun the voices. I hope it works with this one. I don’t want him here. Not now.

  Pant, pant, pant, big boy. I’m right behind you.

  I actually think I can feel The Other Guy nipping sharply at my neck. I try to go even faster. My lungs burn; my heart hammers against my ribs. My legs turn doughy. I race across the football field. Walking students stop and stare at me.

  Don’t run away. I’ve got a plan to make you the coolest guy on the planet.

  The voice is right at my ear. My legs hurt. I can’t catch my breath, think I’ll never be able to catch my breath again. I tumble into the woods at the end of the football field and lie gasping in the wet brown needles beneath the evergreens.

  I feel a huge fullness in my head with every breath. I’m sure I’m going to explode from the inside out. Parts of me will splatter against the tree trunks, and no one will find what’s left for days.

  “Help!” I call out feebly. “Please help.”

  I hear a squeaky jog, first at a distance and then getting closer and closer.

  I also hear:

  Here she comes. Want us to take care of her?

  “Go away!” I shout.

  I open my eyes and Nina looms over me. “I don’t think you really want me to go away, do you?” She too is panting from the run. She bends down and takes my pulse. “What happened to you?” she says.

  “Testing,” I say breathlessly. “Just testing.” The Other Guy seems to have gone.

  “Testing what?” She grabs my wrist and pulls me up. Needles cling to my pants.

  “How fast I could go,” I say. “Could go, could go.”

  “I think you should test how fast you can stop,” Nina says. But she’s wary now as she swipes at the needles. From a distance it must look like she’s spanking me.

  “I can get it,” I say. My breathing is still too fast, but it is slowing down. When I’m done cleaning the needles off, we stare at each other.

  “So, are you okay?” she asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, are you going back?”

  I look toward the school and shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You want to take off, then?”

  “Where would we go?”

  She points toward town and then uphill and then in another direction. “It’s wide open, kid.”

  I jerk up my backpack so it is steady, and we take off toward town.

  We end up at the narrow street that runs beneath the Peter Crawford Bridge. Here the asphalt crumbles, and deep potholes have been bumped out by car tires. The piers of the bridge are mud-caked and shot with graffiti. Nina leads me across the street and down to the water’s edge. Big wet rocks are piled up on the shore to keep the river from cannibalizing its own banks. We step up on one and balance ourselves.

  The water runs brown and quick. The runoff from Mount Rainier and every other high place is collected in this river and rushes toward the ocean, eighty miles away.

  “It smells murky,” I say.

  “So do you have a girlfriend or not?” she asks.

  “Kind of,” I say. I’ve never faced this before, a jealous girl.

  “How can you kind of have a girlfriend? That’s not possible. You either have one or you don’t.”

  “Then I do.”

  She is quiet for a moment, then says, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt like jumping off this thing.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  She shrugs. “Sometimes
I wonder, who do we have to live for? I mean, look at you, Cam. You don’t look so hot. And I’m sure I must look like some bad dream. What’s the use?”

  The important thing is to listen. One can pick up important clues if one opens one’s ears. Listening is generally the right thing to do.

  “Where have you been?” I ask The Professor.

  “I’m right here,” says Nina.

  And listen closely.

  I wave The Professor off and Nina notices.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

  “Right now I am.”

  She sighs and sits on one of the wet rocks. “So you really like her, huh?”

  I nod. “Who told?”

  “Griffin. He likes to see me suffer.”

  “She’s cool,” I say.

  “Where does she go?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Griffin said she’s cute.”

  “He’s never seen her. And the drawing isn’t exactly right.”

  “So there’s a chance she could be even cuter?” Her voice is as dark as the mud.

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “So where is she? Why isn’t she here with you?”

  “Uh,” I murmur. All of a sudden, my footing isn’t so sure. “She was busy.”

  This seems to perk Nina up. “Well, I’m here with you.”

  I look at her hair. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before, but it’s not quite dark enough. Her eyes are spaced a little too far apart. Her nose doesn’t have the little crook in it I like. Her lips are slightly thicker than I like. And the eyebrows are scary. Then she says something that throws me.

  “If you feel like kissing me, don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

  I’m so shocked that I start babbling and can’t control it. “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah,” I keep saying.

  This amuses her. She laughs so hard, she has to hold on to her stomach. “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah,” she says, mimicking me. “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah. What a dork.”

  And deep in my brain, I feel the buildup again, the uncontrollable urge to shout out bad things.